


Final Boy: Qu'est-ce Que C'est?

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Blood and Gore, But Just Kissing In Case That Makes It Better, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Necrophilia, Original Character Death(s), Past Character Death, Past Underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7609930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming Soon to a Theater Near You:</p><p>LOVE!</p><p>INTRIGUE!</p><p>MURDER!</p><p>EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT!</p><p>GORE!</p><p>(To avoid fainting, repeat to yourself; "It's only a fic... Only a fic... Only a fic... Only a fic...")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Final Boy: Qu'est-ce Que C'est?

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha guess who's a big dumb film nerd? this guy. [me]
> 
> wow this shit is wrong, but please remember that God loves and forgives, and so we won't have any hell-talk in the comments below. thank you.
> 
> check the notes if you're scared. I think I got everything in the tags, but, you know.

Peter had grown distant over the last few weeks. When Stiles got back from work, tired from the only semi-rewarding grind of the _Beacon Hills Weekly _, Peter wasn't there anymore, finishing up dinner or reading in front of the fire or even in the garage, playing with his things. Stiles came home, and the house was empty - and being so far away from the city made the once secluded, cozy location feel lonely, creepy in a way he hadn't been subject to in a long time.__

At first, Peter said he had business in the city - which was fair because Stiles knew he had to make trips around California from time to time. Sometimes people required his services in person. Sometimes he wanted to hear the masses which he often denigrated bustling around him, overwhelming his senses. But never for more than a day or two. Certainly never for weeks.

Stiles tried to be supportive, tried to be understanding, tried to be attentive and listen to every small noise that Peter made in hopes that he'd open up and explain where the fuck he'd been going, leaving Stiles all alone until early in the morning when he would wake him accidentally because the younger man had become far too nervous to sleep alone like this, in their old, now-scary house. 

"Shh, darling." Peter would say, and tuck his arms around Stiles's middle and bury his face between his shoulder blades and fall instantly to sleep. He always smelled clean, like he'd just showered, like he'd delayed himself to their shared bed even further by cleaning off whatever scents or _filth_ he'd come home wearing. 

"You know you can tell me," Stiles said one morning after bringing Peter coffee in bed. "If anything's going on, I'll be understanding. You know I get how things are." 

"Shh," Peter hummed and drank lazily and thanked him. He gave him a soft peck on his mouth. They hadn't had sex in sixteen days.

"I love you." Stiles said, and if he wasn't already dressed for work, already running late, he would have tried to initiate something. Something to remind Peter that there was nothing Stiles couldn't and wouldn't give him. 

"I love you too." Peter drawled, and he put the coffee on the bedside table, turned over, and went back to sleep.

Stiles started crying in the car on the way to work and bring a cup of ice to use on his face before going in. When the swelling under his eyes went down, he'd curl his fists around the cubes until they melted, dripping between his white-knuckled fingers.

* * *

"I'll be home early." Stiles smiled, brushing Peter's hair out of his face. Peter grinned back at him - and he still looked in love but if he was still in love then where did he go?

"That's wonderful, darling." Peter rumbled, pressing a warm kiss to his palm. "I know you've been working hard, and you've been so stressed lately." 

Stiles refrained from telling him that he was so stressed because he didn't know what Peter was doing and he hated being alone in the house and scared without Peter there to see him through it. He kept smiling. "I was thinking maybe we could go for a run through the woods?" He offered, maybe a little shyly. "Like we used to? Or maybe just stay in. I'll cook? Or we can order - "

"Oh, Stiles, you know I have to go in to the city tonight. I still have some work to get done." Stiles didn't think Peter looked one bit remorseful. 

"And how's that going?" Stiles asked, trying to keep his face from pinching up. The last thing he wanted was to remind Peter how unattractive he could be. 

"Oh, it's nothing for you to worry about." Peter promised. 

"Are you sure?" Stiles hummed, a tinge of desperation touching his features, his voice. "You know you can tell me anything. I understand that you have needs, and I'm not always around for them." 

Peter's lips tightened. His gaze wasn't soft anymore, and Stiles thought that maybe he stopped loving him for a second. Stiles had lost his interest. Stiles was old and used up, and Peter liked fast, young, virgins with big voices and long legs. "I know, my love." His voice was cold. Stiles had to bite his lip and dig his nails into his palms to keep from crying before he got into the car. "But it's not your problem." 

"We're married - " Stiles started, shaky.

"Yes," Peter pulled him in for a kiss. "And I love you," he said, eyes locking with the young man's, like it would make Stiles believe him. "Please just trust me. It's nothing." And he kissed him again. 

Stiles nodded. He stood. He left. After work, he went to his dad's house and sat quietly on his couch watching some baseball game. He stayed late, and Peter still wasn't there when he got home.

* * *

When Stiles was younger, before Peter, he had had a friend named Scott. Scott wasn’t really around anymore after Peter, and sometimes Stiles felt a hot flash of guilt behind his eyes, in his throat. He hated himself for how Scott had slipped through his fingers, but he’d never hated Peter for having been the one to shred their relationship to pieces.

Sitting alone at their kitchen table, fiddling with his wedding ring like some dumb, useless housewife in a 60s TV drama, he thought what Scott might suggest in a time like this, what he might do to cheer him up. He thought about how hollow his eyes had looked as Stiles ran away, leaving him in the dust.

On nights like this, back when Peter loved him enough to be home, Peter used to wrap him in his arms. He would remind Stiles how they met, how Peter was his friend, how Peter would never ever ever leave him. Then Stiles could get some good dick and sleep in peace without nightmares or startling every time Peter’s big, stupid house creaked.

“I should just ask him.” Stiles said to his tumbler of whiskey. “I should just tell him I know.” Because if that’s what he needed, Stiles would understand. Stiles always got what he needed from Peter, but Peter needed something Stiles could no longer be.

He called up Scotty’s cellphone knowing he wouldn’t pick up and told him how much he missed being 16. He fell asleep hoping against hope that his call would be returned and woke up lying in bed next to a clean-smelling, clue-free husband.

* * *

Not much happened in Beacon Hills, so their paper wasn't the most active. Lots of opinion pieces, lots of small news involving the local elementary school's science fair winners or shop anniversaries. It wasn't as bad as Peter sometimes seemed to think it was, but the days were long and Stiles always came home a bit drained. But he'd been happy. He'd thought they'd been happy. 

"I've been thinking about quitting the paper." Stiles offered a Sunday morning, one of the few times he had more than a couple passing moments with his husband. 

"What?" Peter said, face blank with shock. "But you love working there." 

Stiles shrugged. "I'm not home much - and you said you were interested in kids. Maybe I could write freelance here. Or, I dunno, write a book." 

Peter put his fork down, a small smile playing on his face. God, he was so handsome. God, he was halfway out the door, wasn't he? "What would you write about?" 

"Psycho killers." Stiles beamed, flashing his teeth. Peter's eyes crinkled and he laughed. Pleasure coursed through Stiles; _purpose_. He just wanted to please him, and Peter wouldn't let him. How could Peter not see?

"While I think you'd have an excellent perspective on that topic, I don't think you'd have to leave your job, which you've always said you liked, just so we can have kids." For good measure, he added, "I always figured that I'd stay home with any children we had.”

"But..." Stiles said, wanting to point out how he hadn't been home for his own husband these past days. But the children would be different, he was certain. Peter would take all of the loving he used to give Stiles and he'd attend to the children with it. Stiles could keep him if he provided some children. "I'll look into adoption papers, then." 

And Peter got that confused, blank look again. "Stiles," he said slowly. "Do you really want children now? You're still so young. You just started your career." 

"Why wait?" Stiles said, now back to eating, almost a little frantically. "I mean, really, when is a _good_ time to have kids? Like, we should just have them when we wanna have them - and so it doesn’t make sense to put it off." 

"Yes, okay," Peter nodded, brow still pinched. "But do you want children right now?" 

Stiles froze and swallowed, trying to think of how to phrase it so it wouldn't register as a lie. "If you'd like them," he started. 

Peter was standing immediately, moving to his side of the table. He knelt beside him, took the fork out of his trembling hand and placed it down. "Stiles, what's this about?" 

"You want kids, don't you?" Stiles said, voice quaking as much as his hands. He thought he might cry, and he didn't want Peter to see that. In the past, it would have been all right. It would have been good. But, not now. Not when he needed to make sure he was doing everything he could to be attractive. 

Thinking about it; maybe crying would help. Maybe he should get out of his chair and scream and run out the door, so Peter would chase him and, at least for a moment, consider him worthy of his full attention once more. 

"Of course I want kids." Peter said. Stiles couldn't meet his eyes. 

_Is it me then?_ he tried to get out, but his voice got stuck. _Do you not want kids with me?_ He scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head.

"Not now, though," he continued. "You're still very young." 

"I'm 23. Lots of people have kids at 23. And, besides, you're almost 40, so we should get going, right?"

"Stiles," Peter sighed. "Why are you doing this? Why are you so upset?"

"I'm not upset!" He snapped. "I'm not! You're -- You're not listening to me! I want to have kids with you!" He looked back down at his plate, dejected. An outburst like this couldn't have helped. Peter was probably thinking about whatever or whoever he went to, and how much easier they were. They probably never shouted like that.

"Okay," Peter said softly. "I can get some pamphlets next time I go into town." He tried to reach forward, to stroke Stiles's cheek in comfort, but Stiles stood, feeling himself begin to tear up, and grabbed his plate. 

"I think the pancakes have gotten too mushy from the syrup." He said, voice straining to be normal. "I'm gonna do the dishes." 

"Stiles?" Peter asked, still kneeling, looking after him, lost and confused. "Stiles, you're crying - "

"I'm just excited about adopting." He lied, and Peter clearly caught it because his face sort of crumpled and then closed off. Stiles went into the kitchen and scrapped his plate into the garbage.

* * *

It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair_. Peter was all Stiles had ever known. From the minute he'd picked Stiles out of the crowd, singled him out as _important_ , as _special_ , Stiles had been devoted, body and soul. Stiles had traded his purity for Peter's strength, his dedication, his ugliness. He'd given up his friends, made new ones in the life Peter and he shared.

What would he have when Peter left? 

He knew he wasn't as tight as he used to be. He wasn't as inexperienced, and maybe Peter was upset that he couldn't teach him anymore, but Stiles was still willing to be obedient. Was he not as pretty as he used to be? Was he not as smart? 

What possibly could he offer Peter, when he could take any young man he wanted and restructure him to be what he desired? Had Peter broken him down as opposed to growing him towards the right sunlight? _What had he done wrong?_

For the first time in a long time, Stiles wanted to kill Peter again.

* * *

On day twenty-eight, almost a full month of sleeping in the same bed but never actually being together, Peter found the time or energy or motivation, or whatever he’d been lacking when it came to Stiles, to make love to his husband.

Stiles woke up with Peter kissing between his thighs, lapping at his balls and taint and hole sloppily. He bit at Stiles’s inner thigh particularly hard, and Stiles let out a sigh of absolute pleasure.

“What’s got you so worked up, Peter?” Stiles laughed, asking without thinking. Peter surfaced to rest his chin on the younger man’s stomach, grinning white teeth and red eyes up at him.

“It was a good night.” he growled, before biting and sucking along his husband’s hipbones. Stiles felt his face fall, felt his chest starting to ache at the knowledge that Peter had returned home, just looking for a hole.

With Peter’s urging, he turned over onto his stomach and let him do what he liked. It was the least he could offer. Afterwards, when Peter was knotted inside him, the pressure too oppressive to truly be pleasurable, he got a hand between Stiles’s legs to cup his mostly limp cock.

“I’m just tired.” Stiles said when Peter made a small noise in the back of his throat. Peter’s hand smoothed out onto his hip, rubbing a circle with his thumb.

“Of course, my heart.” he crooned, and Stiles closed his eyes. Peter pressed a hand over his chest. It felt so good to be held. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and Peter pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Go on, darling. Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

* * *

"Some of the local kids have been saying that Peter Hale is gonna come back this weekend." his editor said that Monday afternoon. He was grinning, a little wildly, like this was awfully funny. Sometimes, the fact that he'd only been living in town for a few years really showed.

Stiles snorted. "Peter Hale is dead." He added, because he was mad, "And if he wasn't, he'd probably be out fucking some barely legal twink in the woods." 

His editor laughed, nudging him knowingly. "Like you, huh?" 

Saying nothing, Stiles narrowed his eyes at his boss. He didn't get it. What the fuck did he mean by that? 

"A barley legal twink. I mean, come on, you know what everyone says about you and Benny." 

"No." Stiles frowned. Benny, the name Peter had started going by after Stiles had killed and de-masked him, wasn't well known around town. As a minor-celebrity married to a definite Man of Mystery, he was used to some gossip. 

"Ah, it's nothing to talk about," his editor said, ducking his head like he was all of a sudden ashamed. "But you should know that the other worker bees have a pool on whether or not you call him daddy in bed." 

"That's gross, Ken." Stiles said, but he had to smile. It was nice to get that kind of gossip and not the kind relating to the August 10th Slaughter. 

His editor smiled back, and then asked, "So, what do you think about this Peter Hale stuff?"

A coworker intercepted. "Stiles, are you sure you wanna talk about that?" 

"It's just high schoolers being dicks. They do this every year in August." Stiles shrugged. "It's not like Peter Hale is gonna 'strike again' or whatever." He'd told Stiles that he had no interest in it, and besides, he was far too busy with whatever little fling he'd got going on in the city to plan something like that. 

And Stiles had destroyed his mask anyway. 

"Yeah, but," the coworker gave him a meaningful look. Stiles remembered that this girl had been a couple years ahead of his class, graduating only a few months before Stiles met Peter for the first time.

"But what?" Ken asked, looking between them. 

"I mean, you know, right? You'd have to know." She looked incredibly earnest. Stiles felt bad for her that she felt so bad about it all. 

"What? Some foreign exchange student with a funny name killed him. They make the kids tougher over there in, like, Russia or wherever the kid was from." Ken said. "It's not like Beacon Hills has anything to worry about from _The Beacon Beast_ , Mr. Peter Hale. Dead's dead." 

"Unless you believe in slasher rules," Stiles laughed and mimed repeatedly stabbing himself. 

"How can you joke about this?" Her voice was getting high and shrill. Stiles felt almost manic with amusement. He realized, quite vaguely, that maybe he was as crazy as people who'd lived here longer than three years said. 

"What are you talking about?" Ken repeated. 

"I mean, it wasn't a foreign exchange student that killed him." Stiles admitted. Sardonically, he added, "He does have a funny name though." 

"How can you not know this?" she snapped, like she had to protect Stiles. "Stiles was traumatized." 

"I wouldn't say traumatized. I mean, I'm fine."

"What?" Ken gaped. 

"Stiles, he killed all your friends! You're allowed to be affected." 

"Yeah, years ago. And I killed him back, so, like, we're even." Stiles snapped. 

" _What? _" If Ken's jaw got any lower, it'd fall off. Stiles sort of wanted to see that happen.__

"It's not about getting even," the girl was saying.

"Hey, I was the one who lived through it, so maybe you should _fuck off_." he finally said, his voice raising to a shout. That stopped her in her tracks, and Ken was still reeling. Stiles felt a heat creep up his spine, something like shame, something bad that he used to go to Peter about when he felt. Who would he go to now? "I'm sorry," he said. 

"No," she said, dabbing her eyes. He'd made her cry. He hadn't meant to do that. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you." 

"Maybe you should take the rest of the day off," Ken said, and at first Stiles thought he was talking to the girl, but he realized when she didn't say anything that Ken was talking to him. 

"What? No. I'm fine." Stiles said. 

"You're basically done with your work you needed to get done today." Ken told him, which was something he'd never, ever said to him before. Stiles was never on time with his work unless he was a week ahead. "Maybe go take the evening off. Spend some quality time with Benny." 

"What?" Stiles repeated, softer this time. He knew it must have shown through on his face, something wounded, raw and hurt. 

"Do you want me to call him for you?" his coworker asked. She put her hand on his shoulder. 

"No." Stiles said, because Peter wouldn't be home and his cell would go straight to voicemail.

"I am so sorry I was talking about - that." Ken said. 

Stiles shook his head. "It's fine. It really doesn't bother me," but he must not have looked convincing, because the next thing he knew, he was in his car, driving to his dad's house.

* * *

“I don’t think he loves me anymore.” he said after his dad had gotten him a beer and turned on a football game.

The Sheriff’s eyes got big. He looked shocked. “What makes you say that? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Stiles bit his lip, which had started trembling.

“Honey,” his dad said, a hand clasping his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look at someone with as much love as Benny does when he looks at you.”

“He’s never home.” Stiles told him, sounding so, so whiny.

The Sheriff considered it for a minute, taking a long drink. “Have you talked to him about that?”

“He says he’s working.” Stiles said. He wrapped his lips around the bottle but didn’t drink. His stomach hurt.

“Maybe he’s working, baby. Sometimes things get hectic all of a sudden. When your mom and I first got married, it seemed as though she and I could never get a minute together. We were both scrambling to make ends meet.”

“Dad, this is Benny.” Stiles said. “Trust Fund Benny who works as a ‘private consultant,’ whatever that ridiculously high-paying job is. We’re not really struggling for money.”

And the Sheriff just wrapped his arm around his son and pulled him close. Stiles let it happen, feeling very small all of a sudden. “Son, the day Benny stops loving you, or messes around on you, I will personally introduce him to my rifle. I promise. And I'll eat my hat." he continued, getting his son to hiccup out a weak laugh. "But how about we hold off on that before finding out what’s really going on.”

“Okay.” Stiles mumbled, not feeling all that much better.

“Why don’t you come to dinner on Sunday night? I know you’re gonna stay in on Saturday, but Sunday I’ll make chicken sandwiches and we can watch that Hannibal show you like so much. I’ll give Benny a real thorough third degree.” His dad looked so sure of himself, so happy, and Stiles wanted that too.

“I’ll see if Benny’s available.” he said, admittedly his voice coming out a little cold. The Sheriff just hummed out a sympathetic noise and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

* * *

Stiles found the first clue Peter left that night after coming home. His husband must not have cleaned his whack stack very thoroughly, because there was a picture of a pretty girl sticking out from under the workbench.

She was surrounded by a gaggle of friends, smiling, laughing, her hair red and perfect. She was busty but certainly modest, minimal makeup, tennis shoes. Stiles saw what she was, and he hated her. This had to be the little virgin Peter had been fucking around with. Stiles saw red as he stared more and more at her perfect, freckled little face and her perfect, living little group of friends. She had everything Stiles didn’t; youth, companionship, _Peter_.

And what made her so special? What made Peter think that he could hide this from Stiles? That this little girl was worth their marriage, and their future, and their _love_.

In that moment, Stiles decided Peter wasn’t the only one who got to have fun. After all, it was August. Peter should have known better than to start sleeping around on Stiles during the month that he’d killed all his fucking friends.

* * *

The first step was surveillance, which Stiles was very good at. He easily found the park where the photo had been taken and waited for the teens to return. After all, there wasn't much to do in Beacon Hills. 

By Wednesday mid-morning, he'd laid his eyes on each of the redhead's friends and found they were planning a party on August 10th in the exact same cabin which had since been abandoned. Stiles remembered Peter describing the sensation of smug delight, righteous ecstasy whenever Stiles and his friends had played into his hands. His heart echoed this so vividly, he felt closer to Peter than he'd previously thought possible. 

Although, it must have been easier for him. Stiles had been able to get the remaining days before the 10th off easily enough, but he'd never have Peter's enhanced sense of scent or hearing or strength. But, he resolved it was only right that he worked twice as hard to demand Peter's attention back, and so he was resolved to anything and everything necessary. 

After all, he was a journalist. That had to have some advantages, at least in the preparation stages. He quickly discovered the redhead was named Louise. With further digging, he found her full name was Louise Parker and she would have been going into her senior yer if Stiles wasn't about to kill her and all her friends.

He wondered how guilty he'd feel afterwards. He wondered if Peter would be angry enough to turn him in, to _commit_ him to Eichen House which Stiles felt almost certain he'd be able to land a cell in. Did you get conjugal visits at mental institutions?

* * *

Peter gave him a kiss on the temple. "You seem so much happier." He'd just wandered down the stairs finally, Stiles clicking off Louise Parker's Facebook page to an article on the amount of force needed to stab into a person's chest. Peter took in title of the webpage and snorted. "Are you really sure you want to read things like that right now, heartling?" 

"Nothing else is keeping my attention," he said, which wasn't a lie. Peter hummed and straightened, going to pour himself a cup of coffee before coming to sit with his husband. "Dad wants to have us for dinner on Sunday."

"Of course." Peter said. "That sounds wonderful." 

"Really?" Stiles broke out into a smile, finally looking away from the informational graphic of best entry points. "Great! That's great!"

"Although, my love," Peter began, and his tone turned towards regret. Stiles could already feel his own face going blank, trying to protect himself. "Perhaps you can stay with him Saturday night as well." 

"What?" Stiles blinked. His happy mood was all gone. Was Peter going to meet Louise at the party? "You said we'd always be together on the 10th."

"Yes, I know, I know. But there's something very important I have to deal with. I promise, I'll try to finish it as soon as I can, but I'd feel so much better knowing your father could look out for you until I'm done." He was about to lay his hand on Stiles's hand, but the young man stood abruptly.

"Fine." he snapped. "I'll call my dad right now. You won't have to worry about me at all on the 10th." and he stormed into the garage. 

In an exquisite act of pettiness, Stiles ripped up the photo of Peter's perfect virgin and stomped on the pieces, wishing they were her perfect, freckled, stupid, pretty baby-face.

* * *

The plan had to be moved back. He'd been wanting to get it done by Friday so he and Peter could spend the 10th like they usually did, chasing each other through the preserve. Besides, the kids were planning to stay at the cabin all weekend - but who could say if they'd really stick to it by Saturday night? With no power or running water, he could see them potentially flaking out. And, yeah, maybe he hadn't felt right killing anyone on Peter's day; but he'd forced his hand, hadn't he? 

It gave him an extra day to plan anyway; Thursday spent between sulking and making the necessary purchases. Friday was the nitty-gritty.

It was a group of eight just like it had been seven years ago; not quite the same demographics but close enough. Stiles was nowhere naive enough to think he'd be able to kill these kids in the exact same sequence as Peter - improvisation had always been his strong suit anyway - but it made him feel closer to make plans as if he could. 

That meant Erica was first, of course, followed quickly by Boyd and Isaac. The three of them were never very important to Stiles anyway, and so he doubted Louise Parker would notice if the three stoners in her group went missing when they went out back to smoke. He, himself, hadn't even known they’d been killed until much later when he was sitting in the ambulance, a blanket around his shoulders and a hot drink pressed between his palms, bloody from head to toe.

The next kill would be tricky because Jackson was eviscerated during a beer run, and Stiles was pretty sure they'd be keeping a cooler inside, Allison found him when she went to go check up on him and bring him a flashlight because all the power in Lydia’s mom’s cabin had gone out. She found him by the open fridge door, guts spilled out all over the six-pack of Pabst he’d had in hand. She hadn’t even screamed. Panicked, she’d run out into the woods without a sound, slamming herself against the door while the party inside went on.

When Lydia finally got her back inside and calmed down enough to begin to get the story out, there’d been a knock at the door. Scott bounded up to get it, saying that it must be Jackson even though Allison was begging and pleading with him to not open the door. Scott was laughing when Peter put his hand through his chest.

Rationally thinking about it, Stiles didn’t think he’d be able to manage that. He didn’t have the strength to gut a teenage boy with his bare hands, and so he’d have to resort to more traditional methods. But he could use at least Peter’s mask.

The first time he’d seen it that night, he’d been breathless with shock. Of course, he'd spotted it around town, through windows and around corners, for days leading up to that night. But before then, before looking at it head on, he'd just thought he was seeing things. Unfortunately, Stiles was a bit too late to the game to have been teasing Louise like this, but he'd simply have to make up for lost time with his first impression. 

He remembered Scott slumping to the ground, eyes open, mouth open. Lydia dragging Allison to her feet, Allison stumbling over herself, and Stiles had stood still, gazing at a completely neutral compression mask, only Peter's red eyes and red mouth visible. The wolf had smiled at him, teeth white and sharp, and he sucked Scott’s blood off of his hand. Stiles was a bit worried about that making him sick, but he figured if he could actually stab a boy, he should fully commit to the role of predator. 

A full-faced compression mask was easy enough to buy online, although Stiles had wished he’d been able to use Peter’s. It was special, after all, having been worn from the hospital after Peter had woken up with burns and been unable to heal quite yet. And it certainly left an mark on Stiles's psyche, having featured in fantasies since that night, wishing Peter had fucked him at least once while wearing the plain, beige cover. 

Allison and Lydia had run deeper into the cabin, tripping up the stairs. Peter had watched him, breath barely elevated, still holding his best friend up like a rag doll, fisting his hand back inside the cavity of his chest, pulling out his viscerally-tied heart. He took a step towards Stiles, and Stiles had squeaked, the only sound able to escape as he frantically tried to think, think, _think_ of what to do.

A pink tongue flicked out of the mouth hole, lapping dark red into the wolf’s mouth. Stiles had almost lost it then, but Peter advanced no further, instead tossing Scott’s heart to him, which landed at this feet. Stiles started to breathe hard, unable to swallow, throat burning up. Peter showed him his long, sharp, pearly whites again and went up the stairs to follow the girls.

The more he thought about it, the more Stiles didn't think he could do _any_ of this. Peter's goal had always been the full seizure of Stiles's person, either through his death or rape. Stiles had absolutely no interest in Louise Parker. He just wanted Peter, and the narrative was thrown off-weight by such a shift in focus. 

Stiles nearly brained himself deliberately against the garage workbench. How did Peter do this? He had seemed like he was having so much fun when he came back downstairs, Allison and Lydia's gore spread all down his front, and Stiles had hit him over the head with a baseball bat. Even that had seemed to delight the man, to not slow him down at all - which Stiles now understood as part of his genetic superiority. 

All that mattered, Stiles decided, ripping up all his pages of plans, all his careful notes, was that he killed Louise Parker - preferably in front of Peter - and all of her stupid friends. He wanted them to die, and so they were going to. The final act where Peter pursued Stiles into the woods and mercilessly tore at him until Stiles had finally set the wolf aflame would never be recreated with new players as long as Stiles had the power to keep that sacred.

* * *

That night, Peter was home for once. Peter was home and _loving_. Stiles didn't even have to ask to be doted on. Peter made dinner, kissed Stiles whenever he was in reach, kept his wine glass full. Stiles didn't have to flatter his husband for Peter to take him to bed.

"I'm so sorry," Peter had said. "I'm so sorry you've been lonely."

"Just kiss me." Stiles murmured, pulling him closer, letting them fall onto the bed, letting Peter kiss up and down his neck, ravage his mouth, bite his tongue. "Oh my God," was all Stiles could say, and Peter lowered himself to his husband's pleasure, mouth open, wet, and warm. 

He kissed him and kissed him and kissed him ceaselessly, mercilessly, until Stiles couldn't take it and tugged at his head to bring him back up. Peter's eyes were red, his fangs out, and Stiles thought that this would be an acceptable last time if that was how things turned out. "I love you." he told him as Peter laid him on his back.

Peter put his hands around his throat and pushed in. "I love you." Stiles said again. Peter made some noise. Stiles sobbed in response as he started to pound in, fingers tightening around his neck. Dark spots had started to cloud around his vision, and Peter's cock was getting thicker, pushing in faster and harder but snagging his rim. Stiles wanted Peter to fuck him to death. 

"I love you," he tried to say, and he came as Peter choked him out, eyes blazing red above him. Distantly, as he felt himself breath again, he thought he heard Peter say it back. But he didn't really trust himself right now, all things considered.

* * *

Saturday morning was deceptively calm. Stiles got up at his usual time, his throat sore and scratchy. Peter was already up for once, and he'd made breakfast and coffee. He gave Stiles a kiss on the neck when he saw the bruises, looking so sad Stiles wanted to cry and tell him that it was okay, that he liked anything Peter ever gave to him. Instead he just kissed Peter's hands, one palm at a time. Peter pulled away, his eyes downcast.

"Do you have any special plans with your father?" Peter urged, pilling sausage and eggs onto Stiles's plate. His voice was light, but Stiles could tell what he was fishing for. 

"Not really." Stiles said, mouth tight. 

Peter faked a smile, eyes scanning over Stiles like he was worried about him. Peter could be such a hypocrite sometimes. "Well," he said and was quiet for a second, seemingly unsure of what to say. "I'm sure you two will figure something out." 

Stiles nodded, and they didn't talk again during breakfast. Peter left shortly after, and Stiles honestly couldn't blame him. It was fine anyway because he had plenty of work to get done.

He got the Amazon boxes that he'd stashed away out from under the bed. He tried on the compression mask, which was uncomfortable but not as bad as he thought it might be. From there, he got out the heavy leather gloves he'd bought and the replaceable X-Acto blades.

It seemed a little excessive to attach one to each finger, including the thumb, but Stiles understood that this role required a certain level of commitment. So, he'd bought twelve, allowing for two extra that he could change out in the event that one got dislodged or stuck inside someone's chest. 

Unfortunately, sewing them into the gloves proved futile. While he could basically hold them in place, they were quite steady enough that Stiles felt comfortable they'd do the right damage. He ended up reinforcing them with duct tape, which gave his whole look a rather unfortunate Loving Hands at Home look. 

He would have worn Peter's clothes, but he was too tall for the pants, and the shirts were almost clownishly big on him, so Stiles just wore his own. What he was wearing on his body wasn't really important beyond being durable and allowing for flexibility. And he forewent red contacts, figuring the mask would impair his vision enough. He doubted Louise Parker would really be gazing at his eyes all that much because he wasn't going to toy with her like Peter had with him. He packed his gun, in case things got rough, and a few extra items, like energy bars and bottles of water and a flashlight with a box of batteries.

He drove out, noting that Peter had left his own car in the garage, duffel bag full of goodies dumped into the passenger seat. He parked a bit away from the cabin and drank a bottle of water while the sun went down. He treed the duffel bag just as it was really getting dark, putting on his mask and then his gloves. 

He was about to start walking over when behind him Peter said, "Stiles?" 

Stiles froze, his shoulders jumping up to his ears. Of course Peter had found him. He'd probably heard him drive up, had smelled him once he got out of the car. God, he'd just expected him to be too busy with Louise to actually be paying attention to anything like that. 

"Stiles, what..." Peter trailed off, his voice filled with absolute confusion. Everything was ruined. Stiles thought he might start crying. He couldn't believe that after all his planning, all his preparation, this would end with Peter sending him home, realizing just how crazy Stiles was. 

He turned very slowly, and he gasped when he met Peter's eyes.

Peter was wearing the mask. The compression mask was covering Peter's features except his red mouth and his red eyes. Stiles felt his own mouth fall open. All of a sudden, he got it. He couldn't stop from laughing. 

"Stiles," Peter said again, and he finally took of his mask. Stiles kept his own on, too busy doubling over with hysteria and gasping for breath. Peter sounded concerned. "Stiles, what are you doing here?" He took another step forward and got his arms around Stiles, steadying him on his feet before he fell flat over. 

"Oh my God," he wheezed out, tears prickling at his eyes. He tried to exhale but felt another bubble of giggles well up inside him. "Oh, Peter." He grabbed onto his shoulder, X-Acto blades digging into Peter's shirt, into his skin, and Peter gaped at his hands.

"Stiles..." He repeated, clearly unsure what to make of this but starting to catch on as well. 

"I thought you were having an affair." Stiles managed to get out, and then collapsed into another fit of laughter. "Oh, Peter, I was so scared." 

Peter pulled Stiles's mask off, threw it aside, put his arms around Stiles and held him brutally tight. Stiles gasped, choking on his inhale, and started to sob.

"I'm so sorry, Peter," he cried, tearing into Peter's back with his bladed fingers. "I thought you were cheating on me - I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I'm so sorry. I should have just told you." 

Stiles pushed back and met his eyes, breathing out as evenly as he could. "Why didn't you?" He tried to sound stern. He probably just seemed breathless. 

"I didn't think you wanted me to do this ever again, but I..." Peter trailed off, looking guilty. 

"What?" 

"I couldn't stop thinking about killing you." Peter admitted. "All the time. I wanted - when you were sleeping, when we were talking, when we watched TV, when we fucked. I couldn't get it out of my head." And he seemed to think that this would upset Stiles when in actuality it made his heart trill in his chest. He was still desired, still loved. Peter still wanted to consume him like he used to. "I figured I could get it out of my system, and then you'd be safe." 

"You should have just told me." Stiles said, finally having enough thought to take off his gloves. He brushed his fingertips over Peter's cheekbone. "I would have understood." 

"That I couldn't stop myself from thinking about butchering you." Peter clarified dryly. 

"Of course." Stiles murmured, and he leaned in to peck a kiss on his husband's lips. "I thought you didn't want me like that anymore."

Peter looked outraged. "How could I not want you like that? You're final. You're my equal," and he leaned in to scent Stiles's neck, to bite at the bruises. "The only one who's equal. But I thought I scared you when I got too aggressive." 

"I like being scared." Stiles said automatically. "I like trusting you with myself." 

Peter was silent. He just stared at him, hard and quiet, like he still didn't fully understand. 

Stiles shrugged. "So you get a little stir crazy once in a while. It's not like I didn't know who I was marrying. It's not like I don't love all of you." Peter shook his head a little, still trying to make sense of the young man in front of him. "As long as you only kill other people, that's fine." Peter laughed, which made Stiles grin and add, "And maybe I could help sometimes?" 

"Oh, my love," Peter said, and he kissed him once more. "Oh, I love you so much. I am so sorry you doubted that." 

"Me too." Stiles agreed, feeling light and joyful and energized. "I love you too."

"Do you really want - "

"Yes." Stiles said instantly. "Yes, I really want to help you." 

And Peter, eyes red once again, smiled, showing all his white, sharp teeth. He took Stiles by the hand and helped him put the mask back on.

* * *

Peter lay under Stiles on the wood floor of the cabin. His shirt had been torn off, deemed an irreparable loss after getting some teenager's blood and piss all over it. His pants were bunched up at his ankles, and Stiles was in his lap, bouncing on his cock. 

Head thrown back, Stiles rode his husband in a frenzy, one gloved hand balancing on Peter's heaving, slick chest, the other holding Peter by the chin, having just stopped dipping between his lips, cutting apart his tongue, filling his mouth up until he gagged and choked, utterly incomprehensible. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but he just dribbled more blood onto the cloth of his mask.

Louise Parker had torn Stiles's mask off when he'd finally tackled her to the ground of the woods. He'd stuck his fingers in her eyes as punishment for looking.

Peter was whining like a dog beneath him, and Stiles turned his gaze back to his face. His mouth was a mess; Stiles couldn't help but sob at the sight. 

Pushing himself up with one hand, Peter mauled Stiles's mouth. Stiles could feel his husband's cock starting to knot, and he tried to get his glove off so he could touch himself, tearing at it with his teeth, cutting his lip. Peter made an animal noise and lunged forward, knot expanding, lapping at the wound with his slowly healing, pronged tongue. 

Stiles's own tongue slipped in between the split, bloody muscle. His mouth touched the swollen, ragged edges, sucking half of Peter's tongue in, and he came, shot hard between them, clenching hard around a too big knot and starting to cry. "Oh, I love you," he sang, pressing kisses all over Peter's face, leaving dark red blood-smudges on beige. "Oh, thank you, Peter." Peter tried to say something back, but his mouth was full of fangs and blood and he was starting to come. Stiles listened to them both panting for a moment before finally pulling his gloves off and then helping Peter out of his mask. 

His eyes were glazed red, his hair matted down with sweat, which Stiles ran his hands through. It was adorable. Stiles looked around at the eight bodies they'd gathered around to watch. Louise Parker was at their side, closest, admiring them blindly. While Peter continued to catch his breath, Stiles leaned over to press his mouth to her's. 

Peter groaned out something like _ohh fffuck_ and fell back dramatically, like he could support himself no longer against the erotic gravity of what his husband was doing to him. Stiles grinned and tilted Louise's chin, opening up her mouth, licking inside. 

He sucked her tongue into his mouth, moaning, and then moaning again harder when Peter's hips jerked, ramming his knot against his prostate. Stiles lapped all around her mouth after that, sloppily over her teeth and gums and lips before pulling back to inspect her and then Peter. "So, you did find her attractive, didn't you?" 

"She was a lovely girl." Peter said, fangs having receded, tongue almost one again. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. "But you were attracted to her." 

Peter turned his head to look at her closely. Stiles had left her head tilted towards them. Peter was almost nose to nose with her. He looked back at Stiles. "She's not you." 

"You're a sap," Stiles snorted, but figured that was good enough.

"Hmm."

And there quiet for a few moments, Peter's eyes slipping shut, Stiles looking around at the friends. "What should we do about all of this?" he asked, gesturing to the bodies and blood and general mess of gore surrounding them.

"You mean you didn't have an end strategy?" Peter's eyebrows raised gently. 

"Well," Stiles started, now feeling more than a little embarrassed about suspecting Peter of cheating on him. "I was planning on killing Louise in front of you. Then you'd either have me arrested or maybe committed. I didn't really expect to get away with it." 

And Peter laughed, a low rumble in his chest. He cupped Stiles's cheek. "Oh, dearling." he crooned. "Stiles, my heart. You're so _young_."

"What was your plan?" Stiles asked, equal parts shamed and flattered. 

"I was going to burn the cabin down," he sighed. "I thought maybe if it was gone, I wouldn't have to deal with the urges anymore. But..." He looked at Stiles, considering. 

Stiles felt excitement settle warm in his stomach. "But we could do this again, right? Together?" 

Peter's face scrunched up in thought, like he wasn't sure. "I don't know how long we could get away with this. Beacon Hills isn't a big city. We'd have to be very careful, and even then." 

"We could expand?" Stiles offered, beaming, hopeful. A little more hesitant, he added his own desire. "And, I mean, we don't have to be Jason Voorhees every time. We could play _Saw_. Or _Funny Games_. Right? Or whatever you wanted." 

Peter showed his teeth in a sharp, wide smiles. " _Natural Born Killers?_ "

Stiles nearly laughed, shaking his head. "We have dinner with my dad tomorrow." he reminded him. "I don't think we can commit to anything like that for at least a few more years." 

" _Hellraiser_." Peter grinned wolfishly, voice curling in amusement. Stiles rolled his eyes. " _The Neon Demon_." Stiles snorted and gave him a very dubious look. " _Antichrist_."

"Oh my God, Peter,": Stiles said, finally starting to giggle. "You're just being gross now. That's not even a horror film." 

And all of a sudden, Peter got an awfully serious expression on his face. Stiles's laughing quieted, and Peter pulled him close. 

Hot in his ear, he whispered. " _Nekromantik_." 

Stiles pushed himself up, ready to chew him out for making him think he'd actually had something meaningful to say, but he caught Louise's gazeless gaze again. He looked at Peter, and Peter winked and then settled back like he was ready to watch. He kissed Peter, thinking how lucky it was that they always seemed to want the same things.

**Author's Note:**

> For starters, Peter slasher-killed Stiles's friends when he was in high school, and it's implied that after this they started a relationship which led to their marriage and the events of this fic. This relationship would have been started when Stiles was underage - and also Peter killed his friends, so clearly this is not the most stable and balanced couple. Now, Stiles thinks Peter's cheating on him and decides to slasher-kill the girl he suspects Peter is having sex with and her friends. Turns out Peter is not having sex with anyone else but is, in fact, also planning to slasher-kill this girl and her friends. He is doing this because he keeps thinking about killing Stiles, and he would like to not do that (aww how romantic). They run into each other and make up and decide to slasher-kill together. Afterwards, they fuck with all the dead bodies around them and also Stiles kisses a dead girl.
> 
> Whew. That was a lot. 
> 
> You can follow me on [my tumbley](http://gigglesnortbangdead.tumblr.com/) if you want (but honestly if you got your rocks off to this, you should probably just follow [my icky porn blog](http://schoolgirlblues.tumblr.com/)).
> 
> As always, thanks for your time and your attention. If you would like to give me a bit more of your time and attention, leave me a comment. I require a lot of attending to and I'm sure the people I interact with in my day-to-day would be much happier if I got a little ego-stroking from some of you. (But I already feel gross for asking haha.)


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